


a helping hand.

by alekstraordinary



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Canon, Domestic, M/M, Wounds, one of them gets hurt and the other one takes care of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23698615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekstraordinary/pseuds/alekstraordinary
Summary: “Is it really necessary to be done in here?” he finally asked, shifting impatiently on the stool he was sitting on, and turning his head at the man accompanying him. Ed. Edward. Nygma. A forensic scientist at the G.C.P.D. The man who saved his life and then requested mentorship. — a short conversation between Oswald and Ed behind the scenes of s02e09THE SERIES HAS NOW BECOME A MULTICHAPER FIC TO KEEP ALL THE PARTS IN ONE PLACE! https://archiveofourown.org/works/23934097/chapters/57556273
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot & Edward Nygma
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	a helping hand.

The tiny apartment at the top of one of the countless crumbling buildings was in every inch Gotham’s essence—condensed and closed in the little space there was in the cramped open plan. It was dark in there, despite all the possible lamps shining, as if the city’s inherent gloom was gnawing at the trembling edges of the green neon glow pouring inside through the dirty windows. There was a recognizable cold and heaviness in the air that not even the radiator buzzing on one of the walls could fight, and neither could the fruit and fresheners remedy the ever-present grim stench. Yet, at the same time, it was comfortable. It was familiar, so to say, or at least it could be to someone born and raised in Gotham, as the flat held the city’s mark burned deep into its walls, still persisting there in spite of the owner’s clear efforts to make it more “his”.

There were odd pictures and posters hanging on the walls, and at least half the furniture had been exchanged to make it appear more like taken out of a laboratory, just to name a few of the items indicating what kind of person the owner of the apartment could be. If someone was to pay more attention to the details—if there was anyone to care enough about the quiet tenant who never really spoke to anyone, nor caused any disturbance—they would see such personal belongings as a stack of neatly filled journals sitting on the desk, or a seemingly unnecessary pair of glasses on the bedside table. There was something clinical about that space, so meticulous and organized it almost felt unnatural. 

Or, perhaps, these were just the irrational and overly analytic thoughts running through an exhausted mind. 

If possible, the bathroom there was even smaller and giving even more of an obscure impression than the rhythmic humming of the blinking sign right behind the window. Regardless of having had been raised in worse conditions, Oswald still struggled to appreciate the downgrade of his surroundings he had gotten used to since taking over Gotham as his own. To an infinitesimally small extend, he knew he should be grateful to even be alive, but given his record of brushing with death and then still making it out alive, stronger than before, this was no comfort. Then there was the awareness of the recent events heaving on his shoulders already, mixed with the embarrassment of letting himself appear so small and so weak to a stranger. And one he owed his life to, and who looked up to him at that. All of this, together with his distaste for the decoring, and still far from full strength after being shot, boiled down to bitterness. 

“Is it really necessary to be done in here?” he finally asked, shifting impatiently on the stool he was sitting on, and turning his head at the man accompanying him. Ed. Edward. Nygma. A forensic scientist at the G.C.P.D. The man who saved his life and then requested mentorship. Even for Oswald, this was a strange situation to be in, and Nygma wasn’t making it any easier with the way he carried himself. It was hardly possible to figure out how to actually address the odd man to begin with, let alone what to make out of him. So far, he was like one of the riddles he seemed to be so fond of, and one that Oswald didn’t quite know how to crack just yet. 

In response to the question, Nygma—or Ed, as he insisted on being called—gave him a wide smile, the skin at the corners of his dark brown eyes crinkling. “It’s easier for me, and consequently quicker for you, to get your dressings changed close to running water, Mr. Penguin,” he responded cheerfully, throwing a piece of gauze stained with blood into the nearby garbage can. “Besides, it’s  _ way _ cleaner in here, and we don’t want any you catching any infections. I had to dig out the bullet out of your shoulder and stitch up the wound afterward. I’m afraid I’m not particularly skilled with that, so it’s going to leave a scar. But that won’t be the first one, will it?” 

Frustrated, Oswald just scoffed and grit his teeth as Nygma cleaned out the wound on his shoulder blade properly. He was far from being in the mood for making small talk, especially not after he exposed himself emotionally in such a pathetic manner, as if he was still that nobody holding an umbrella and having to beg for his life. Now, there he was, the king of Gotham, exhausted from blood loss to the point he could only make his way around the shabby apartment he was trapped in. He couldn’t stay here idle like this, not when he had his empire to take back. He hoped for Galavan’s sake that he would get life in prison, spend the rest of his miserable days behind the bars, because if Oswald ever got his hands on him- 

“All done here!” Nygma said, as he put a piece of band-aid to Oswald’s back, pressing down at it gently to make sure it stuck. “It doesn’t look too bad, but I’m certain it would have looked better if you didn’t insist on leaving on two different occasions, after I’ve explicitly told you that you can’t.” 

Oswald chose to ignore that, instead rolling his eyes and reached down to pull the oversized pajamas onto his shoulders again, but—to his dismay—he was stopped. “Oh, what now?” 

Holding up a white roll, and turning it between his fingers slightly, Nygma reminded: “Bandages”. He took out the pin holding the whole thing together. “To keep the dressing in place, and to put an appropriate amount of pressure on your wound, to ensure proper healing process. Now, if you could just… raise your arms a little…”

Begrudgingly, Oswald followed the directions, but not without a displeased grimace. “Why are you even helping me?” he asked, before he could bite his tongue. “I have met  _ plenty _ of strange men, but I still struggle to believe that you would just take the most wanted man in all of Gotham into your apartment because you wanted  _ guidance _ . In murder, at that.” 

Nygma didn’t respond right away, but even sitting with his back facing him, Oswald could feel the subtle change in the atmosphere. It seemed like he had unknowingly struck a nerve. “I don’t really like it when people call me strange.” Ah, there it was. “I’m helping you because I wanted to. Because I need guidance on this new path, yes. And, maybe because I believe in fate,” he kept talking as he leaned to the side, wrapping the stiff bandages tightly around Oswald’s chest. “And because you asked me to.” 

“What?” Oswald moved on his stool, turning his head yet again. “I never-”

“You did. Back in the forest, by the trailer I found you in. You asked for help and then… well, you passed out almost right away. And seeing how there was no proper equipment to treat you there, the only logical solution was to bring you back here. Now if you could, please, stop moving, I’m almost finished.” 

The answer wasn’t as clear as Oswald had hoped for but, truly, what else could expect? Still, it gave him a bit of information about his new companion. But that should be enough for him to figure out how to solve this riddle of a man, and once that was done—who knows—maybe he could even become a useful associate. It would be beneficial to have another informant in the G.C.P.D., this time a much more willing one. Nygma was far from stupid, so there was no point in even attempting to manipulate him, especially not after he’s acquired information about Oswald during his low moment. No, this was going to be much more complicated, but who was he to refuse a little challenge? Besides, against his better judgment, he still felt as though he owed Nygma a favor after the man had taken care of him, and then even went as far as put his mind back on the right track. Perhaps, Oswald could use a helping hand, indeed. 


End file.
